


quarantine, or: how to land a boyfriend in 14 days

by TooRational



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Best Friends, Cuddling & Snuggling, Current Events, Domestic Fluff, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Isolation, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Quarantine, Sleepovers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, no one is sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23252464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: Patrick turns his head in Pete's direction and sees him,Patrick sees him, and his frown goes up a notch, and a fisted hand settles on one hip in that typical Patrick-is-a-grandma-pose, and Pete grins and runs full-tilt into Patrick's arms, disbalancing them both until they slam into the side of the house, tangled and half-frozen anddefinitelysoon-to-be-bruised. He interrupts whatever rant Patrick had prepared that starts with 'youidiot' by tucking his frozen nose into Patrick's neck and sucking the warm air coming from Patrick's skin into greedy lungs, and grins even wider when Patrick yelps, offended as he always is by a breach of his personal space.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 23
Kudos: 68
Collections: Lock Down Fest





	quarantine, or: how to land a boyfriend in 14 days

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is vaguely modern, vaguely implies current events, and the quarantine practices and general actions of the characters are based on current recommended activities, but nothing else from the Real World Events is explicitly mentioned or referenced. It's also pure fluff, but still, proceed with caution and keep away if you think you will be triggered. I'm available for summaries and any and all questions here in the comments or on my [tumblr](https://toorational.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I love you all, take care of yourselves. Here's some fluff to make you feel a tiny bit better.
> 
> ♥

Pete is running as if the very Devil is after him.

Football hasn't prepared him for this; how could it? They work on endurance, and dribbling, and agility, not three-mile long sprints half-way across the suburbs.

It's just— Pete heard the words 'isolation' and 'quarantine', and realized that's going to be _fourteen days_ of not seeing Patrick; of not being able to hug him, of not being able to drop by to see him whenever he feels like it, of hearing his voice through stupid _phones_ or _online_ , and he simply— he kind of snapped and ran out of his house, his mother yelling something that got lost in the panicked noise of his brain after him.

He cuts through a few lawns, runs diagonally across a deserted street, causes a barking frenzy in that one neighborhood with tiny nervous dogs, and bursts out onto Patrick's street with all the speed and triumph of a conquering hero, scratches and leaves from that one prickly bush he fell into all over him. The proximity to his goal sends a jolt of excitement through him, and he wrings one last drop of speed out of his tired body.

When he comes into view of the Stumphs' porch, a shivering, frowning Patrick appears like a vision, hopping from one foot to the other, and Pete's too tired to laugh but he would, he _so_ would, he would announce his joy and relief to the world, because _he did it_ , he's _here_!

Sadly, he can't do any of that because he's panting too hard, because he just _ran three miles across town_ to be stuck in a _different_ house for approximately two weeks.

It's possible Pete is just a _tiny_ bit dramatic.

Pete would ponder that deeper but Patrick turns his head in Pete's direction and sees him, _Patrick sees him_ , and his frown goes up a notch, and a fisted hand settles on one hip in that typical Patrick-is-a-grandma-pose, and Pete grins and runs full-tilt into Patrick's arms, disbalancing them both until they slam into the side of the house, tangled and half-frozen and _definitely_ soon-to-be-bruised. He interrupts whatever rant Patrick had prepared that starts with 'you _idiot_ ' by tucking his frozen nose into Patrick's neck and sucking the warm air coming from Patrick's skin into greedy lungs, and grins even wider when Patrick yelps, offended as he always is by a breach of his personal space.

"What is _the matter_ with you, your mom called worried out of her _mind_ , then _my mom_ got upset, and—" Patrick rants in rapid succession, but it's okay, everything's okay, because Patrick isn't pushing Pete off of him, he isn't telling him to go back home.

Patrick has his arms firmly wrapped around Pete's waist and is also flailing about, trying to absorb Pete into his jacket and cover him as much as possible, but it's not really working since Pete can't make himself let go at all.

Finally, Patrick sighs and gives up, dragging them both into the house and slamming the door shut with his foot.

"I couldn't be away from you for _two weeks_ , 'Trick, that's _impossible_ , how could anyone ask that of me? I would wither away and _die_ ," Pete mumbles into Patrick's neck as soon as he has enough air to speak, and it's true, all of it, except maybe the wither away and die part. He would probably self-destruct spectacularly. And who would pick up the pieces then?

Patrick shivers again, hard enough to make Pete frown and straighten.

"How long were you out there? It's cold!" he demands.

Patrick splutters. "How long was _I_ — you just _ran here_ in _nothing_ but a _t-shirt_!"

"Yeah, but I was active and stuff, I hardly felt the cold; you, on the other hand, were just _standing_ there. What if you _got sick_ , Patrick? What if you got pneumonia, or bronchitis, or some dangerous, _vicious_ throat-inflammation thingy?"

Patrick narrows his eyes at Pete. "One: don't be ridiculous, I'm not gonna catch my death from a little cold; and two: I'm starting to think you only like me for my voice."

The sentence is so patently untrue, so _horrifyingly_ false, that Pete can't do anything but gape at Patrick open-mouthed.

"What?! _No!_ " he finally manages about an eon later. "Of course I don't— How could you even _think_ — "

A fake cough from the end of the hallway interrupts Pete's outrage. Patrick's older sister is smirking at them in that infuriating way Pete knows well. He uses it all the time on his own siblings.

Pete frowns. It's very annoying from the other side. He should stop doing that.

...or not.

"Mom wants to talk to you guys in the kitchen," she says and flounces off.

Looks like Patrick isn't the only one with the dramatic genes in the family.

Patrick rolls his eyes at her retreating back.

"Come on, let's face the music," he says, and drags Pete after him.

***

After a lot of groveling, a long conversation between Pete's mom and Patrick's mom, and Patrick throwing a fit the gist of which was 'if Pete goes, _I_ go', the verdict is that they stay there for the duration of the quarantine. Patrick's mom assured Pete's mom that he's no bother, and that they have more than enough food for everyone, and one teenage boy shouldn't eat them out of a house and home in that period, and _seriously_ , Pete is _no bother_ _at all_.

Patrick snorted at that but put on an innocent face quickly enough after Pete kicked him.

They've been in Patrick's room ever since, dinner not due for a more few hours.

A few long, boooring hours.

"I'm bored," Pete says, sprawled across Patrick's bed diagonally, head hanging off the edge so he can see Patrick sitting at his desk.

Patrick doesn't even turn around, the _traitor_ , just says in the flattest voice known to man: "You've been here for fifteen minutes, Pete."

Oh.

Then this is, like, the longest fifteen minutes of Pete's _life_.

Pete sighs.

"True. But I'm _still_ bored," he says.

Patrick snorts, the _asshole_.

"Scroll some more on Tumblr. Or Instagram. Or Snapchat."

"Done, done, and done, I've seen it all already, _twice_ , and it's all _so fucking_ _boring_."

"Read a book," Patrick says, gesturing vaguely to his bookshelf.

Pete considers it for a moment, then sighs again.

"Don't feel like it."

"Then I'm out of suggestions, sorry," Patrick says and goes back to ignoring him.

Pete is quiet for about a minute before he's _completely_ convinced that this situation is _insufferable_.

"Patriiiiick," Pete whines, and he knows he's being obnoxious, he _knows_ , but if he keeps thinking about the fact that he can't really go out when and where he wants to, whenever he feels like it, for the next _two weeks_ , he'll probably lose his mind this instant.

Patrick is still ignoring him, in favor of… Garage Band?

Okay, that's almost forgivable.

"What'cha working on?" Pete asks, and the curiosity in his voice must be enough to draw Patrick's attention because he turns around in his little swivel-chair.

"Just a song," Patrick says.

As if there's a 'just' about _anything_ Patrick does. It's probably going to be their first hit or something, and years from now, when they're big and famous, reporters are going to ask 'how did you write this song, Patrick?' and Patrick will say something like 'oh, I was inspired by this and that, and also, I had to put up with Pete bugging me endlessly and not letting me work on it, and I _still_ did it'. And everyone is gonna laugh and congratulate Patrick on being so creative despite all these obstacles.

Meaning Pete. Mostly and generally meaning Pete.

"Okay," Pete says as he lifts his head and lies back on the bed properly, suddenly feeling like he _is_ a huge bother.

What was he _thinking_? Running across town on a whim, not even a toothbrush on him, not a change of clothes or anything practical, only a phone jammed into his back pocket. He just showed up, entitled and _childish_ , expecting Patrick to take care of him, to be _glad_ to see him, when all he brought with him is trouble?

When all he _ever_ brings with him is trouble?

Sometimes Pete wonders who is the teenager here. Then again, Patrick is approximately a thousand years old sometimes, and Pete feels, like, _five_ , so.

"Wanna see?" Patrick asks, cutting into Pete's self-pity-party.

Pete cranes his neck to see an upside-down Patrick wave a 'come here' at him.

"Okay," he says cautiously, then gets up.

He looks around the room for something to sit on and spots a bright red plastic chair that looks like it came from a children's tea time playset in one corner. He drags it over and sets it down next to Patrick.

His knees just about hit his chest when he sits on it, but he's at the perfect height to lean his cheek onto Patrick's bicep, to drape his forearm over Patrick's thigh and wrap a palm around Patrick's knee for safekeeping, so he's content.

He listens to Patrick explain instruments, and levels, and how he mixes it all up, and how many cool things he can do with the program without even touching an instrument, and Pete sinks into it, floating on a wave of contentedness, happy to just listen to Patrick and hum in interest every so often.

It's pure bliss.

***

They binge-watch B99, snacking on popcorn and chatting idly, until way past midnight. Patrick's mom comes in at some point and makes them brush their teeth and change for bed, like they're unruly children.

It's not long before Patrick starts nodding off, though, and Pete reluctantly goes to the guest room.

He tries, he _really_ tries, but sleep is like the Holy grail tonight: not only unreachable, but Pete is doubting its existence.

So he decides to do what he usually does on nights like these: he goes to Patrick for help.

"Hey, Patrick?" Pete whispers, head poking through the cracked-open door to Patrick's room, standing on his tiptoes because it makes him feel sneakier.

"Yeah?" Patrick whispers back, and Pete takes it as a go-ahead.

He slips into the room, closing the door carefully, and crawls into Patrick's bed, elbows and knees landing into bedding and soft parts of Patrick indiscriminately.

"Ow, watch it," Patrick complains, swatting at Pete's head crabbily.

"Shove over," Pete grunts as he wedges himself into the narrow space between Patrick and the wall.

Patrick grunts back at him, but does as he's told.

Pete sighs, warm and cozy, and closes his eyes.

Then opens them again about ten seconds later.

His nose is itching.

He scratches the itch, then snuggles again.

Then his hand starts itching.

He scratches at _that_ itch furiously, then wriggles a bit, just to find that perfect comfortable spot again.

The spot is nowhere to be found.

Eyes closed stubbornly, Pete frowns.

He then realizes he's uncomfortable lying on his right side, so he switches to his left.

Deep breaths, deep breaths, deep—

His nose is itching _again_ , what the fuck?

Pete scratches the itch, then just as a precaution, swipes a hand over his face in general.

Maybe that'll stop the itches.

Ugh, now his pillow is warm.

He turns it over, irritates, and punches it a little to mould it into optimal shape.

His calf starts cramping up, so he mouths a silent 'oww' and does a few pointy-toes-pointy-heel stretches to loosen it up—

"Would you _stop wriggling_ ," Patrick grinds out in his 'if you don't cut that out I'm gonna punch you' voice, and throws an arm and a leg over Pete.

"I just—"

"Shhh," Patrick shushes him loudly, and Pete huffs out a loud breath through his nose.

It's not like Pete has _asked_ for his insomnia, okay? He _hates it_ because it fucks with his already more-than-fucked-enough head, but it is what it _is_ , he has no control over it.

" _Sleep_ ," Patrick breathes out, and as tangled as Pete is in the covers and Patrick, he can't move more than an inch in any direction no matter how much he wants to.

He sighs and thumps his forehead once against the wall in frustration, somehow causing Patrick to wrap his arm around his head, and it's so dark and quiet in there, only the sound of his breathing in his ears, and Patrick warm and heavy against his back, and Pete drifts and drifts, until sleep drags him under between breaths, swift and velvety soft.

***

When Pete wakes up the next morning, Patrick is _gone_.

He's not in the room when Pete wakes up, and he's not in the bathroom, and he's not in the kitchen, either, and Pete is just winding up for a freak-out of epic proportions because _where has everyone gone, is Pete the only one left on this earth_ , _what the actual fuck?!_ when he hears laughter coming from the back yard.

He goes to investigate and finds the Stumphs (mother and three children) spread around the backyard, doing... nothing in particular.

Walking? Breathing?

"What are you _doing_?" Pete asks from the safety of the back porch, shivering in his — well, _Patrick's_ thin pajama bottoms and _his own_ t-shirt that the little thief stole who-knows-when.

Patrick tilts his hoodie-covered head at him, a confused frown on his face. "What do you mean?"

Pete flails his arms at the outside and all of _them_ , being outside.

" _This_ ," he says, for a lack of better words.

Patrick blinks at him.

"...you do know we can go out, right? Just keep away from people and, like, stay in your house in isolation if you _actually_ get sick? Hell, we could go for a walk in that park right now, no one's there."

Oh.

_Ohhh._

Well, _now_ Pete feels a bit stupid.

"Um," Pete says and scratches at the back of his head, hoping his mom's complexion is merciful enough today to cover up the heat he feels in his cheeks.

Patrick doesn't tease him, though, just grins and says: "Go get dressed, you exhibitionist, and come join us."

Pete blows Patrick a raspberry but runs off.

They're _going to the park_.

***

The park is a great idea, not only because Pete expels some of his nervous energy on the jungle gym, but also because Patrick keeps laughing at Pete's various stunts and daring him to do more (though mostly tricks on the safe side; Patrick is nice like that).

Pete hangs off the bars upside-down, lets Patrick spin him in the spin-thingy until he's nauseous, climbs the lone tree until Patrick starts swearing at him to come down before he breaks his stupid neck, talks Patrick into doing the seesaw with him, and lands as hard as he can every time in an attempt to catapult Patrick off his seat.

It's _awesome_.

***

_Day three of quarantine. The supplies are getting low. They start exchanging worried glances, wondering who will eat whom first._

_Is it worth living, if it comes at the expense of another human being? Or will devouring their heart really give you someone's strength and power?_

"What'cha writing?" Patrick says, suddenly popping up from the bedroom floor and _right in front of Pete's face_ , and Pete flails so hard he flings his notebook straight across the room.

They both watch as it slams against the wall and slides down, only to land in a sorry pile of ruffled, crinkled pages.

Patrick turns to look at him, eyebrow raised.

"Shut up," Pete mumbles, embarrassed, and goes to collect the notebook with Patrick's giggles echoing behind him.

***

They can't work on their songs _at all_.

Pete feels guilty, but he's also trying to comfort and reassure Patrick, convince him it's normal to be too stressed to compose in a situation like this, so he somehow manages to cheer himself up as well.

After a few days they give up completely, and bury the notebooks and the instruments under a layer of dirty clothes so they don't have to look their at failure in the eye.

***

On the fourth day — or is it fifth? they've started to blend together — they pull out the board games at Pete's insistence.

The experiment lasts exactly 13 minutes, during which Pete watches in disbelief as the two previously tame, mostly boring Stumph children, plus Patrick — _Patrick_ , _Pete's_ Patrick — become vicious, merciless, bloodthirsty little beasts.

It's as unbelievable to witness as it is terrifying.

Pete pinches himself multiple times, but nope, still reality.

Patrick's mom finally wrestles the Monopoly board away from them when Patrick's sister tries to bite Patrick and accidentally gets _Pete_ instead.

(Well. It's possible it _wasn't_ so accidental and she was simply trying to provoke Patrick, considering Patrick launched himself at her with a roar when Pete yelped.)

(...is it fucked up that Pete was actually a little touched that Patrick was so protective of him, and that Patrick's sister clearly knows that Patrick's weak spot is _Pete_?)

The board games are off the list of approved activities after that.

***

It's all fun and games until Patrick loses his last drop of patience.

Neither of them is big on video games, at least not for endless hours on end. They're too restless for it, though it manifests in each of them in its own way. Pete usually does something physical like soccer. Patrick paces and talks, or whales on his drums.

Unfortunately, they've run out of things to do today, too lethargic but too restless, not interested in a single hobby or activity, and they're taking it out on each other.

"You click that pen _one more fucking time_ , I'm going to _murder you_ ," Patrick grits out, and finally, _finally_ something to _do_.

Pete looks straight into Patrick's eyes, smiles his widest dipshit-smile, and clicks it again.

Patrick _propels_ himself out of his chair, looking hilariously red in the face to boot, and Pete runs out into the hallway, cackling like a maniac.

They circle the house a few times, bowl over each of Patrick's siblings at least once, do a quick lap around the house, and then Patrick _tricks_ Pete with _inside fucking knowledge_ of the house and jumps out at him from a wardrobe.

Pete pleads uncle before Patrick can really let loose his fists of fury — there's no way to avoid them since Patrick is literally _sitting on him_ ; it would only end badly for Pete — and they go back to peacefully coexisting in Patrick's room for the next couple of hours.

Then Pete finds a pack of gum.

***

They spend one entire day playing each other music, shoving each other away from the laptop, interrupting songs to outrageous yells, getting into slap fights over songs and bands and albums.

They fall asleep while holding one another away from the keyboard, and Pete wakes up in the middle of the night in a dark room, head-to-feet with Patrick, a blanket on top of them.

He just rolls over and goes back to sleep, only waking up when Patrick shoves him off the bed accidentally in the morning.

***

The less said about the Great Farting Incident, the better.

***

Patrick is humming something.

Pete can't quite tell what it is without words but he _knows_ it, it's such a familiar tune. He hums along, trying to jog his memory, but no luck.

He presses his face into Patrick's warm neck, the better to feel the vibrations, and listens closely.

Nope.

"You're warm," he mumbles absently, more to say something than because he expects an answer.

Patrick stops humming, there's a moment of silence, and then Pete sits up with a gasp as the significance of what he said penetrates his fuzzy brain.

"Patrick, you're warm, oh my god, _are you okay_?!" Pete says in a single breath, grabbing Patrick's head and peering into his eyes suspiciously like he can see the fever or infection or _whatever-the-fuck_ it is if he looks close enough.

"I'm fine, Pete, I'm— hey, listen to me, _listen_ , I'm _fine_ , I just had a hot shower like five minutes ago," Patrick says.

"Oh," Pete says, blinking a few times to dispel the relieved dizziness, then says, "Are you sure?"

Patrick smiles at him, one of those soft smiles that Pete still hasn't quite figured out what emotion they're accompanying, and says softly: "Yeah, I'm sure, Pete."

"Okay," Pete says.

He wraps himself around Patrick a little tighter when he lays down again, though. Just in case.

***

"I bet I could—"

"No."

"But—"

" _No._ "

***

"Hey, let's bake some cookies," Patrick's mom says on what _must be_ day three hundred and eighty nine, words only slightly colored with desperation.

Pete perks up.

He has a sweet tooth and cookies are the way to his heart; what can he say?

"Cookies! I love cookies, let's do it. Patrick and I can help," he says.

" _No_ ," three voices say in complete unison, and Pete pauses awkwardly, half-way on and half-way off the couch.

Then realization hits.

He whips his head around to look at Patrick — Patrick who is scowling, arms crossed, in a picture-perfect definition of the word 'petulant' — and says: "What did you _do_?"

"He set a bowl of brownie batter on fire," says Patrick's sister gleefully, and Pete is— Pete is _impressed_.

" _How_?" he asks, in awe of his tiny friend's capacity for mayhem.

 _Pete_ has never managed to do something like that, and he's done many a stupid things in his day and age. Meaning as recently as _yesterday_.

(There was an incident with a tree. _Again_. Don't ask.)

"I didn't mean to!" Patrick says in a tone of voice that suggests he said this _at least_ a thousand times before.

Pete chortles.

"That's _even better_!"

"Oh, shut up," Patrick says and kicks at him.

"He's banned from doing _anything_ in the kitchen except pouring himself a glass of water or handing people things," Patrick's brother pipes up.

It occurs to Pete that he should _really_ learn all of these peoples' names, but they're defined by their relations to Patrick in Pete's head, so it's… Slow-going.

"Ugh," comes from Patrick, who appears to be trying to suffocate himself with his own hands.

"This is _amazing_ ," Pete says, amazed.

Then another, even _more_ amazing thought occurs to him.

"...wait. You must have more stories like that, right?"

Patrick's face emerges from behind his hands, all color drained from it, eyes huge.

And that's how the baby albums come out.

***

Patrick _legitimately_ tries to murder Pete for laughing at the embarrassing stories and the baby pictures until he's breathless — there's some choking, some hair-pulling, some light arson of Pete's clothes _with Pete in them_ — but luckily, Patrick can't stay mad at Pete for too long. His temper is explosive, but short-lived.

Thank heavens for small mercies, Pete thinks fuzzily that night, wrapped around Patrick tight as a boa constrictor around its next meal, otherwise Pete would have had to spend the night in the guest room.

The _horror_.

***

"Let me do your make-up."

"No."

"Patriiiiiick."

" _No._ "

Pete puts his hands on Patrick's shoulders, enjoying the couple of inches of height he has on Patrick, and tells him solemnly: "If you don't let me do it, I swear I'll draw a dick on your face with a _permanent marker_ while you sleep."

Patrick narrows his eyes at him.

"You don't have a permanent marker," he challenges.

"I'll find one," Pete replies calmly, and he can _see_ the doubt in Patrick's eyes, that tiny sliver of 'he would, wouldn't he?'.

"You wouldn't dare."

Pete leans in and bares his teeth in what could only very generously be called 'a smile'.

"Try me."

Patrick huffs, and puffs, and decides retreat is the better part of valor for _once_ in his stubborn little life, it seems, since he nods sharply.

"Fine."

" _Yes_!" Pete says, victory arms high above his head, then runs off to borrow stuff from Patrick's sister before Patrick changes his mind or finds a way to wriggle out of this.

Well, when Pete says ' _borrow_ '...

"Come on, up," Pete says, patting the counter in the bathroom cheerfully.

Patrick draws himself up on the counter with the same enthusiasm people have when heading to execution.

"Aww, don't be like that, this will be fun," Pete says, rummaging through the little bag he has liberated.

He has no idea what half of this stuff is, and the other half he doesn't know how to use — how does one apply concealer, exactly? do you need a paintbrush or do you use your fingers? — but Patrick has great skin anyway, and Pete can certainly find his way around some eyeliner and eye-shadow.

"Okay, now be still," Pete says, and steps in-between Patrick's legs.

Patrick straightens instinctively, eyes wide as he looks at Pete with apprehension.

"Don't poke my eye out," he says nervously.

"I'm not gonna poke your eye out," Pete assures him, but Patrick doesn't look very reassured.

"Seriously, don't—" 

"Oh my god, I've done this _a thousand_ times on myself and I _still_ have both of my eyes, would you _chill_?"

Patrick settles down with a dissatisfied grunt, and now Pete has the peace, quiet, _and_ permission to perform his experiment.

Working hypothesis for the experiment: Patrick is gonna look _awesome_ with some eye make-up.

Pete expects to be proven completely right.

"Okay, close your eyes. I'm gonna use a pencil on your top eyelid so you have to be _very still_ ," Pete says.

Patrick swallows, then nods.

"Okay, I'm ready," he says, eyes closed, hands folded in an anxious knot in his lap.

Pete carefully pulls at the skin at the corner of Patrick's right eye and draws a line.

Patrick's nose twitches adorably but he doesn't flinch.

Patrick's thighs are twin lines of heat on Pete's sides and, inexplicably, that fact makes Pete's mouth as dry as the Sahara.

He swallows, then repeats the process on Patrick's left eye, and Pete's hand is shaking a little but the line looks okay.

"Eyes open," he murmurs, and Patrick's eyelids lift in a slow, lazy glide, _oh_.

Patrick's eyes are _beautiful_.

How did Pete not notice that before?

"I'm gonna do the bottom lid now, look up," Pete says, voice soft and low to avoid breaking the spell that seems to have descended on this completely ordinary bathroom.

Patrick looks up obediently, and Pete finishes his work carefully and _oh_ so gently. Patrick's eyes twitch minutely with every pass of the pencil, but he's doing admirably well at keeping still for someone with no experience.

"Eye-shadow now," Pete says, and swirls his forefinger roughly in the gold powder he dug out of the make-up bag. He wishes he knew his way around mascara for a second — Patrick's eyelashes painted in black would be _incredible_ — but that part is _way_ beyond his capabilities for now.

Maybe some other time.

A light touch does it, a bit of eye-shadow at the corners of each eye, a bit near the eyeliner, and just a soft sweep on his eyelids, and Pete's done.

His masterpiece is complete.

"Open your eyes," Pete says, the rumble of his voice feeling funny in his chest.

"How do I look," Patrick asks, since Pete insisted on doing this with his back to the mirror for the sake of a Dramatic Reveal, and. 

Well.

Turns out, Patrick with make-up is _gorgeous_.

Not that Patrick _isn't_ gorgeous, generally, during every day of his talented, grumpy little life, but the eyeliner _really_ makes his eyes pop, especially with his glasses off, and the golden eye-shadow draws out the golden ring around his iris as well as providing a contrast to the grey-green-blue — which is, frankly, a _stupid_ amount of colors for a person's eye, what's up with that? Did Patrick have to be an overachiever with _eye color_ , too? — not to mention the way Patrick's been chewing on his bottom lip nervously and now it's all red, and plump, and wet, and—

And—

"Pete?" Patrick whispers, eyes wide, and Pete just kind of—

—he just sort of—

—kisses Patrick.

***

Huh.

***

It is entirely possible Pete has some kind of debilitating mental condition.

Aggressively… deteriorating… brain… ... _rot_.

Or something equally as dangerous and incurable.

Because _who_ fucking _kisses_ their best friend — on the lips! _on! the! lips!_ — while in _actual_ and _literal quarantine_ — meaning they _can't escape each other_ for the next _however many days!_ — just because their eyes look pretty, and their mouth is kind of… fucking fantastic, actually, but that is _not_ the point.

The point is: _who does that?!_

Pete.

 _Pete_ does that. That's who.

So. 

Aggressively deteriorating brain rot.

That's what happened. That's what caused all of this.

That's Pete's story and he's sticking to it.

***

Pete doesn't sneak into Patrick's bed that night.

He also doesn't sleep _a wink_ , but that's more or less common, and also expected.

Patrick doesn't ask, the next day, he _very obviously_ doesn't ask, but. Pete still feels guilty.

He just can't figure out if he feels guilty about the kiss, or about the shameful runner he did after it.

***

"Wanna watch A New Hope?" Patrick asks after a three-thousand-hours long day, and Pete falls onto the hand stretched out in kindness like a starving man falls onto water.

They spend half the night marathoning the original Star Wars trilogy, quoting lines and pretending they're back to normal _so hard_ that they accidentally achieve it a few times.

There's a few moments of hands-meeting-in-the-popcorn-bowl, a few awkward shifts on the couch when they slide too close to each other or when Pete forgets himself and reaches out to touch, but they're mostly fine.

By 3 am they're bleary-eyed, _gritty_ -eyed, and officially overdosed on all things Star Wars for now.

The next re-watch will have to wait _at least_ a week.

Pete is determinedly clinging to the fragile feeling of normality with all the strength in his torn, bloody fingertips.

***

The thing is, the thing of the matter of the— the _event_ , is— 

Pete can't stop thinking about it.

The kiss, Patrick, his eyes, his lips, _any_ of it.

He manages a whole three hours of sleep that night.

Eh, it's better than nothing.

***

Pete is taking sulking-selfies the next day — face half-covered, eyes lined dramatically, hoodie up — when he notices the bunny-ears.

The bunny-ears that are finger-shaped and _very_ real, and _not_ an instagram filter.

A wave of relief and utter warmth spreads all over his body.

 _God_ , Pete has the _best_ best friend _in the world_.

He grins, pretending he's oblivious, until the perfect opportunity to jump on Patrick presents itself.

And it's just that easy.

***

"You're my best friend," Pete whispers that night, Patrick's back a long line of warmth against his own. "Nothing's gonna change that."

"Okay," Patrick whispers back and shuffles back a little, presses them together a bit tighter.

It's going to be fine. Everything's going to be fine.

Pete is sure of it.

***

The end comes on swift and merciless wings.

"You have to come home, Pete," Pete's mom says over the phone.

Pete swallows hard, heart drumming out a furious rhythm Pete previously thought only Andy could achieve. Or Joe when he _really_ gets shredding on the guitar.

"This thing could take who knows how long, and none of us have any symptoms, and neither do the Stumphs. It's been more than two weeks. Enough."

"But—" Pete starts, but doesn't have anything to finish it with.

 _But I don't want to leave Patrick_ , is what it all boils down to, and that's just not an argument his mom is going to accept.

Sure enough, the next thing out of her mouth is ' _Pete_ ', said in that awful, ' _I'm your mom and you have to listen to me_ ' voice, and Pete has to obey.

"Okay," he whispers, and ends the call.

When he turns around, the look on Patrick's face tells him he already knows what this call was about.

***

"Pete, _wait_!"

Pete turns around, borrowed jacket swishing with the movement — Patrick's sister has _the_ most _atrocious_ taste in jackets, this one is somehow _mud green_ — and sees Patrick doing a rapid walk-skip-hop towards him.

It's a fucking _adorable_ walk.

Oh, _man_ , Pete is _doomed_.

"Um," Patrick says when he reaches Pete.

And then says nothing.

Pete frowns. "What?"

Patrick bites his lip, eyes huge.

"You okay?" Pete asks, getting worried.

"No. I mean, yeah, _yes_ , I'm okay. I just…"

Patrick trails off into a vague gesture.

"Seriously, dude, are you—" Pete starts, then shuts up because Patrick takes a deep breath, puts his hands on Pete's biceps, then plants a serious, solemn smooch on Pete's lips.

Pete's eyebrows jump up, but before he can collect himself, Patrick pulls back, anxiety positively rolling off of him in waves.

"There," he says, like it explains anything.

"Huh?" Pete says.

"Um… There?" Patrick repeats, unsure.

" _What_?" Pete says, and he's about to ask what 'there' is and how does it have anything to do with _anything_ , when it occurs to him that _Patrick kissed him_ and he's _being a fucking loser_ about this.

Kissing! _Kissing_ is what's supposed to be happening here, and Pete knows kissing, he's _good_ at kissing, you can ask _anyone_ ; so he kisses Patrick back, and he ignores the awkwardness — it's always awkward in the beginning, that's just facts, it doesn't mean anything, really — and he sucks on Patrick's plump lower lip, keeping things soft and chaste, easing them into the serious make-outs, so to speak, _hopefully_ ; and then something happens, time slipping and twisting and running away from Pete, and suddenly he's breathless, lips swollen, brain buzzing, Patrick pressed so tight against him he's on the verge of overheating, Patrick sucking on his tongue with a suggestiveness that makes Pete weak in the knees.

 _Whoa_ , Pete's knees say, and Pete has to agree.

"Why— how come you came after me?" Pete asks, still breathless, then steals another kiss because he _can_ now, he can he can _he can_.

"My sister told me, and I quote: 'what is your _damage_ , Patrick, _go after him_ ', and it kind of caused me to have an epiphany," Patrick says, complete with a mocking voice for his sister, and Pete can't help the cackle he lets out.

"Shut up," Patrick says, his own grin reaching towards his ears, and bites at Pete's bottom lip.

"And what epiphany was that," Pete murmurs against Patrick's lips, wrapping his arms around Patrick tighter, right palm holding his own left wrist at Patrick's lower back so he can't escape.

Impossibly, it brings them even closer together, and they both inhale sharply.

"I guess that I wanted to do this again," Patrick says, voice husky, and Pete grins so wide it _hurts_. 

He bumps his forehead against Patrick's gently, then buries his face in Patrick's neck, hugging him tight enough to make him squeak.

What else is there to say, anyway?

***

It takes at least half an hour for them to separate.

Luckily, the street is basically deserted so no one bothers them.

***

To Pete's utter shock and confusion, Patrick appears at Pete's door the very next day.

"What— _How_ — " Pete splutters, and Patrick grins, wide and happy.

"Now that we know you guys are as healthy as we are, we can hang out."

" _Seriously_?" Pete says, and then doesn't even wait for an answer because when hasn't Patrick been completely serious about any of this? Patrick _knows_ his stuff.

Patrick is _so_ smart. And pretty. And talented. And Pete's.

He's _all_ Pete's.

Pete steps out into the big, bad, dangerous world, and pulls his Patrick into a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> The make-up scene was inspired by a similar scene in one of my very favorite Kradam fics, [(This Is) Not a Statement](https://archiveofourown.org/works/65259) by seperis. It's an amazing fic, one I love and reread often, and my little scene is merely a humble homage to the brilliance of it. Go read it, what are you waiting for? Shoo!
> 
> As always, come talk to me [on the tumblers](https://toorational.tumblr.com/)! <3


End file.
